Omnia Mutantis: Ripple Effect 2
by Linkstar
Summary: America is dangerously close to war with Genosha after a terrorist attack, and Hank McCoy approaches the X-Men with a plan to avert what will become a race war. Chapter Six now online (Finally!) please please please RR!
1. Chapter One

****

ONE

At exactly three seventeen PM, Eastern Standard Time, the sky fell on the sleepy township of Newhope, just outside of New York City. Flight 703 tumbled out of the sky, like a metal bird caught by a bullet, or some instrument of the Gods that had been brutally discarded. The plane was carrying 300 people, who all perished on impact. The devastation the crash caused was catastrophic; the nose of the plane ploughed into the ground in a built up residential area, and the plane pushed through several apartment buildings, sheared through power poles, and uprooted underground plumbing.

The loss of life on the ground was greater. One thousand people were killed instantly with at least another thousand seriously wounded. 

The entire town was effectively shut down by the crash, bringing life to a standstill, as if someone had hit the pause button. Newhope's general hospital was too small to cope with an incident of this magnitude, and temporary morgues were set up in churches, gymnasiums and the town hall. The nation was grieving and when something like this occurs, the nation asks the question, one which comes so naturally to someone who has experienced a shock. It was the question that Dr. Celia Reece was dreading that she would have to answer for the nation, and she didn't know that the cause would be immediately identifiable. As lead investigator for the NTSB, she knew that all eyes were on her when she attempted to answer that all encompassing, grief stricken question that slipped out of the mouths of everyone:

__

Why?

She arrived at the crash site just two hours after the disaster, and the rescue efforts were still continuing. The news vans had preceded her arrival by at least an hour. The local police were doing their best to keep them at bay, but the response to a disaster of this magnitude was too much to look away from. It appeared as if everyone, even the newsmen kept behind makeshift barriers, was shocked at the scene before them. 

Celia was always awed by the scenes that she was called to, and she knew that in a profession such as hers, that awe should have long ago evaporated, as constant contact with this sort of devastation tended to inure one to the trap of becoming emotional when all one's concentration should be on the mechanics, the logistics. God is in the details, her father used to say. But such an indiscriminate loss of life spread over such a massive area was enough to make even the most hardened investigator pause to take a breath. 

The crash zone was spread over several blocks. Smoking debris lay everywhere, jagged and sharp and blackened. Emergency workers were pulling bodies out of the twisted wreckage, and bagging them as fast as they could. They were losing light, the afternoon sun dipping behind the buildings slowly, drawing the shadows deeper. Two halogen lights were being set up around the largest piece of the wreckage, which was the almost intact front section of the plane, resting on its side and dwarfing everything around it. It made sense that the front section would be intact. Celia could hear the shouts and curses of the emergency workers as she approached carefully, picking her way through the minefield of debris. She pulled up short as she noticed a man walking towards her, his jacket marking him as a police officer. The man had dirty blonde hair and a blunt square jaw, and as he looked at her, his blue eyes spoke of exhaustion and shock. She showed her ID by way of greeting and the man nodded to indicate that such a gesture was not necessary.

"How are things going?" She asked. 

"They're going. We're trying to get the bodies out of here before nightfall."

She nodded and let her eyes wander over the crews of men, some marked as police, fire brigade and medic, and others in plain clothes, clearly volunteers doing their bit to help out. The whole crash site was eerily quiet, save for the sounds of engines running, radios crackling and people communicating in muted tones. "I don't like your chances," She replied. She ran a hand through her short dark hair and fixed him a look with her blue grey eyes. "Looks like this might drag on until the early hours. Then we can start thinking of getting all of this debris back to New York. My investigators are all en route now, and we want to be able to have a good look around. Tell your men to try to leave everything as it is, and if they need to remove or change anything, to come and see me or one of my team."

The other man nodded. "I've given them a run down and what to expect here. We've been just waiting for you guys to show up."

"And you are Chief of Police here?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm a detective from NYPD. Formerly homicide but now I've been assigned to the new counter terrorism unit."

Celia's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you doing here?" She said with an edge to her voice that she did not intend. "We don't know what the cause of this crash is yet. Your presence here is a bit presumptuous."

"Not really. I was passing through when the plane crashed. I was actually due to meet this flight when it landed in New York. I was running late, and then, well, all hell broke loose and here I am. I've been asked to head up things here because the police chief and a few officers are among the dead."

Celia immediately felt foolish. The man was just doing his job when he could have thrown up is hands and told the locals that this was not his jurisdiction. She ducked her head by way of apology and held out her hand. "I don't believe I caught your name," she said.

"That's because I didn't give it. Victor Morgan."

They shook hands. She noticed his fingers were dirty and damp. "Celia Reece."

"I know."

She pushed her hands deep into her jacket and followed as Morgan walked back to where the cockpit lay. All of the ground beneath her feet used to be occupied by mid sized apartment buildings. She could see concrete pillars jutting out of the earth, sheared off at the top so cleanly that a huge sword could have lopped them off. Pipes were exposed and some pieces of furniture from the buildings were lying around, still intact, unscathed. Water was spewing forth from a few of the pipes. She made a mental note to call the Water Company and get them to stop the flow. There was no telling what the water was washing away.

As they neared the huge conical cockpit, the smell of aviation fuel filled her nostrils. She took a deep breath as the familiar fluttering in her stomach started its rhythmic pulse. Morgan stopped short of the wreckage, watching as another body bag was filled and the emergency workers picked their way out of the debris with another wasted life. "What do we know about the last minutes of the flight?" He asked, staring ahead still.

She sighed. "Pilot put a call to air traffic control saying that controls were either non responsive or sluggish. Plane seemed to be functioning properly other than that. Then, just like that, the controls were working again. Control tried to confirm the flight's progress, and the pilot responded that they should be arriving earlier than expected. Air Traffic Control was very worried at this point, because the pilot's voice had slowed, and his response seemed so detached from the urgency of the situation. I think it was a coded message. I think he knew something was very wrong, but for whatever reason, he couldn't say it." She stopped for a moment, took a breath, and then continued. "At twenty thousand feet air traffic control lost contact with the flight. Its altitude was dropping at an alarming rate. After repeated attempts to raise either pilot, Control put a call in to scramble an emergency response team at JFK. But the flight never even made it that far."

Morgan nodded. "So it may have been hijacked?"

"At this point it is dangerous to speculate. Some of the passengers aboard used their cell phones to call loved ones before the plane hit. Seems there was an explosion at the back of the plane, but the source of that explosion, and if there was anyone behind it, is something we will have to establish." She stopped then, and looked at him. Victor Morgan was taller than her by about a foot. Curiosity once again got the better of her. "So why were you due to meet this flight?"

"I was picking up an informant."

Celia could have sworn he stopped himself from saying anything more. Not that he needed to explain to her. There could have been a connection between Morgan's "informant" and the catastrophe that downed flight 703. Perhaps Morgan's presence here was not so inappropriate after all. She would find out more when she had a look at the passenger manifesto. If the flight had been victim to a terrorist attack, Celia knew the FBI would be all over the case, effectively shutting out her own investigation. The FBI did not like to share information, and they became protective of any important discoveries. Celia felt the beginnings of a cluster headache throb behind her eye and she rubbed her temple. This case would be high profile. The eyes of the nation were already fixed on Newhope. Her arrival at the scene had caused a flurry of excitement amongst the press; she had obtained a measure of celebrity 5 years ago when she was lead investigator for the NTSB following a mid air collision between two commercial airliners in the skies above Virginia. She pinpointed the cause of the collision, and was able to reconstruct the events that conspired to lead the two airliners to smash into each other. She had been offered book deals and even an offer to have her life turned into a movie of the week. But the more public interest in her grew, the more she withdrew from the spotlight. Her work was always the most important thing. 

"I'm heading over to the command post to get some coffee. Can I tempt you?"

She smiled thinly. "I'd love a coffee, thank you. There's not a lot I can do until my crew gets here anyway."

"Beats sitting on your hands." He led the way to the command centre, which was in fact the church hall across the road from the crash site. The entire street was quiet. Celia assumed Morgan had already cleared the neighborhood. They entered the hall through two huge double doors that were scarred by time. The space inside was quiet and the people inside worked swiftly and efficiently. It was like any other temporary HQ at a crash she'd been to, but she saw now the signs of a resigned familiarity in the faces of those few assembled. It was as if this sort of thing were as common as a five car pile up or a burst water main. Tragedies like this would occur twenty years ago and the people assigned to sweep up the debris, pull the bodies out and work out exactly what happened were all in awe that something so devastating could ever happen. Now the process by which an investigator would piece together the fatal last minutes of an airliner was a science taught at major universities, and even the general public was aware of the inner workings of a major crash investigation. 

Celia blamed the violence of the world she lived in, blamed the nonchalance with which humans conducted their daily lives, and the fact that the unpredictability of the current world political climate ensured that people actually expected this sort of thing to happen in their own backyard. 

Morgan led her to a small card table upon which sat an ancient coffee machine. He poured himself a cup, added cream and then turned to her. "How do you like it?"

"Strong and black as night."

He nodded and handed her a Styrofoam cup before indicating that they should sit at one of the wooden benches in the centre of the room. The benches faced a small stage, which was now playing host to a huge map, a whiteboard and a model of the very plane that lay in ruin on the ground outside. In its normal capacity it would be the stage for small plays and concerts held for the elderly. Celia sipped her coffee, which was really quite good. "I'm sorry if I seemed abrupt with you before," She said, rolling the cup around with her palms. "I'm always like that when I arrive on a scene. There's a lot to take in, and sometimes you're not even sure if your presence is even wanted. The first couple of hours at a crash site are terribly important."

He nodded. "You don't have to explain to me. Hell, a few years ago I'd have been the same if you had intruded on one of my murder scenes. It was only my dumb luck that I was here when the plane went down." He smirked and took a slurp of coffee, a habit that grated on Celia's nerves. She smiled thinly and wondered whether Victor Morgan was the sort of cop who thinks the first one on the scene owns the whole investigation. 

"I didn't know the NYPD had a counter terrorism unit," She said, trying to glean some more information about the man's motives for being there.

"It does and it doesn't. The simple fact is the unit has been set up as more of a placebo than anything else. It is a high profile arm of the NYPD that focuses on crimes of terror within the police department's jurisdiction. The aim is to share intelligence with other precincts, other authorities and international organisations. But as you might already know, some kids don't like others playing with their toys. It's been a real problem to get co-operation at times."

Celia was impressed. The man looked like a high school football star gone to seed, but he was certainly no doughnut chewing redneck. "Do you think the unit will last?"

He gave her a sad, knowing look. "I think while it is politically popular it will stay. Right now, practically, it means twice the work for me for only slightly better pay. The man I was meant to meet at JFK was the first real lead I had on a bomb threat case I had been assigned to. My colleagues in San Fran sent him over as a favor. He was escorted by Mike Leibovitch, one of their guys."

Celia drew a breath. She was already drawing a map in her mind. With one criminal involved in an investigation by a counter terrorism unit, the odds did not look good on this one being mechanical failure. But she could already see that by the scatter pattern of the debris, the absence of the back half of the airliner, and the passenger reports of an explosion. She tried not to make these clues fit into a ready-made template for her to work off. The last thing she needed was to let mere suggestions overtake the facts. She would bring them to consideration, share what information Morgan had given her, but she could not let this one solve itself so easily. She shifted on the hard bench. "Did you see the plane come down?"

He shook his head. "I was travelling in the other direction, out of town. Heard the roar as the plane was falling, and felt the heat of the explosion on the back of my neck, but no, I did not see the actual crash. But we're getting a lot of detailed eyewitness reports. Maybe some footage will show up, I dunno."

"Thank you, Detective Morgan. I appreciate your efforts."

Morgan nodded, and sipped his coffee, which by now was lukewarm. He hadn't done that much to further the investigation. He knew that Celia was just being facetious. But when a plane falls out of the sky, there is not a whole lot of good a cop can do to help out. There are highly trained professionals who swoop in and contain everything, examine the pieces of a disaster and try to put them back together like a jigsaw. He felt as if his immediate presence on the scene was needed only to baby sit the huge broken craft until the emergency workers arrived. Victor Morgan didn't like not knowing what was about to happen next, and he didn't appreciate being made to feel inferior. He stood up and smiled down at Dr. Reece. "It was a pleasure meeting you, doctor," He said as he extended his hand.

Celia stood and shook his offered hand. "Likewise, detective Morgan. Can I ask that you make yourself available for an interview with my investigators sometime in the next few days?"

He nodded and shoved his hand in his pockets. "Call through to the front desk at the station and ask to be put through to me."

She said that she would and handed him her business card almost as an afterthought. "If you can think of anything, call my office or my cell phone. It would be most helpful."

He took the card, slid it into his shirt pocket and nodded by way of farewell. His boots rang out on the cement walls, and as he reached the huge double doors, something stopped him. At first, Celia thought that he had remembered something, but he wasn't looking at her. He was listening to one of the other officers talking on the telephone. The two cops were staring at each other, and both men wore a frown on their face. Celia was too far away to hear what the man was saying into the phone, but from the rapid way he was speaking, and Morgan taking cautious steps back into the hall, she knew something was wrong. She felt that distinct feeling in her gut that said the case was just going to get harder to solve. But what she discovered when the young officer hung up the phone wrapped her case up in a nice neat little bow. He spoke softly, looking only at Morgan. "The…uh…. The New York Post has received a letter claiming responsibility for the bombing," He said, and sat down heavily in ratty old armchair. Morgan moved closer and stared at the phone now, like it was some vicious animal that would strike him at any moment.

"And what did it say? Who was it from?" Celia demanded. Her tone was harsh and clipped. 

Morgan met her eyes from across the desk. "The MLF sent the letter; dated two days ago, along with a sizeable document they call their manifesto."

Celia frowned. "Who are the MLF?"

Morgan took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the desk. The fax machine was spitting out pages from the Post's evening edition, plus copies of the original letter. "The MLF are a terrorist group based in the European state of Genosha. They have been involved in a civil war with the Genoshian military regime for the better part of a decade now. That is the condensed version of their history, but you get the picture. Thus far, the MLF have only restricted their activities to domestic terrorism. It appears now they've gone global."

Celia waved all this away with an impatient gesture. "What does MLF stand for?"

Morgan paused for a second to inspect one of the faxed documents. He appeared to forget her question, and Celia's frustration with the man's casual air was at a peak. Without taking his eyes from the page, he said softly, "Mutant Liberation Front."


	2. Chapter Two

****

TWO

Three days after the crash of flight 703, days which were filled with images of the dead passengers, updated lists of deceased civilians and round the clock coverage of the investigation by the NTSB and the FBI, Doctor Henry McCoy could feel his despair rising. With every talkback radio host calling for vengeance, and every newspaper running editorials about the ever-increasing threat of domestic mutant terrorism, McCoy felt his confidence in humanity fall. 

The word from the White House was that a war posture was being adopted. The threat of Genosha was increasing, the military men said, and Genosha being a country that knows no freedom and allows terrorism to reign, they had no right to oppose those ideals in America. But McCoy was in a rare position to help stem the flow of pro war rhetoric that seemed to be pouring out of Capitol Hill. As advisor to President Reynolds on Mutant Issues, McCoy had the ear of the most powerful man on the planet. His post within the administration was appointed because of his high profile status as a voice of reason within highly conservative times, and because the President had been an old school friend. Of course Reynolds did not know McCoy was a mutant, but McCoy seen that as beside the point. There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up.

McCoy sat in the back of a federally funded town car, which waved two miniature American flags from its hood, marking him as a political care package. The town car glided through the rain slicked streets of Washington DC and McCoy stared out of the window, plotting his moves. The President had summoned him to "sound some things out", which almost certainly meant that Reynolds was deeply considering the tides of war and sought the counsel of good ol' Hank McCoy. The president was a man whose power was only as potent as the men who surrounded him, and it was on the veracity of his advisors that he relied heavily. Reynolds was a very canny politician, and he had the rare talent of predicting the mood of the people and altering his policies to suit. Reynolds was also popular and, as the last election proved, unbeatable. A war was not something that Reynolds could seriously consider if he wanted to retain that level of popularity. In truth, wartime presidents were rarely returned to power even if their war effort was successful. McCoy could at least rely on Reynolds considering the plight of those that had served before him in similar situations.

Hank McCoy could only put forth his opinion to the president. He knew that General Peter Greenblatt would be present at the meeting, and he knew that Greenblatt was a supporter of a war in Genosha. Greenblatt had served in every major military operation in the last twenty years and he commanded a great amount of respect. He was one of a depressing majority of influential people to expound the need for America to go to war to show the world she was not just for show. The hope for diplomacy to win out was fading, and Hank McCoy knew that this meeting would be his last chance before the president gave the green light and took his proposal to congress. He needed to convince the president that a show of force in this case was not only unnecessary but foolhardy. As one of Charles Xavier's former students, and later as an X-man, McCoy learned valuable lessons about how a war should be fought, and when one should be fought at all.

The car began crunching up the gravel drive that led to the White House and his driver was out of the car and opened the door for him before he had time to realise his mind had been wandering. He stood up and his seven-foot frame shadowed the other man. He adjusted his glasses and smiled at the chauffeur. "Thank you David. I will call you when I'm ready to leave."

"Yes sir."

An immaculately dressed woman with iron-colored hair met him outside the doors, and extended both hands towards the big man. Hank gave her a warm hug and beamed down at her. "Lillian Hopegood. How are you?"

"The better for seeing you, doctor." Lillian Hopegood had been President Reynolds' personal assistant since he was governor of Louisiana. She was hard headed, strong willed, and fiercely intelligent, and she was good at her job. Hank suspected that the President was actually afraid of Lillian, but then, he could see why. 

"How has everything been?" He asked as they moved through the huge doors flanked by secret service men. Lillian hooked her arm around his and sighed.

"General Greenblatt has been lobbying the Prez on this whole Genosha debacle. As you know, James is reluctant to commit troops until he has been convinced that Genosha poses a threat to national security. What Greenblatt doesn't grasp, what he doesn't understand, is that we could very easily seek our retribution by going into Genosha and finding those responsible. Let the UN deal with Genosha's regime."

Hank smiled down at her. "Have you told him how you feel?"

"Only every chance I get, and usually he would listen to me. But Greenblatt and a few other key people in high places like the idea of capitalizing on this. Me, I think the good general is sizing up the oval office and likes what he sees."

"You really think so?"

She gave him a 'you know better' look. "Greenblatt is not a stupid man, Hank. He's a political animal and he knows an opportunity when he sees one."

Hank considered this and saw the truth in her words. They walked in silence for a few moments and then Hank said, "What about Greenblatt's opposition? Have they been lobbying just as hard?"

She nodded and frowned. "There have been a few vocal opponents. The Vice President is not convinced that war is necessary, secretary to the treasury Ritten is unimpressed by Greenblatt's show, and of course there's you."

They reached the door to the outer office, which housed Lillian's desk, and Hank took a seat while Lillian picked up the phone on her desk. "Dr. McCoy is here to see you, Mr. President," She said briskly. "I'll send him in momentarily." She hung up the phone and she waited until Hank was on his feet again before squeezing both of his huge hands in hers and smiling up at him broadly. "Just say what you feel, Hank," She said. "Because lord knows you may not get another chance."

Hank nodded and followed her as she opened the door to the inner sanctum of the Oval Office. She announced his arrival and inquired if anyone would like coffee. Hank accepted but the other two men in the room, President James Reynolds, and General Peter Greenblatt, declined. Lillian closed the door behind Hank and the President rose from his chair. "Doctor McCoy, thankyou for coming. Take a seat. I believe you've already met General Greenblatt?"

Hank nodded and shook hands with both men before taking a seat in front of the President's huge desk. "You're looking good, James," He said to the President, more for Greenblatt's benefit than his own. "I see you've been taking squash lessons again."

Reynolds wagged a finger at McCoy and smiled. "I'll beat you yet. You're just too damn quick for a man your size." 

The two men laughed comfortably while Greenblatt shuffled through his notes. Greenblatt was a battle tank of a man with no neck, graying hair and a blunt, square head. He looked indistinguishable to any military man that he had under his command with the exception of more medallions and stripes on his shoulders. The President sat and faced the two men, hands resting on an ink blotter before him, fingers laced.

"The General and I have been discussing the Genosha issue, Hank," Reynolds said gravely. "And it looks as if the Genoshian regime has chosen to ignore our requests to turn over those members of the MLF responsible for the attack on flight 703. They have disavowed all knowledge of their whereabouts, which is troubling."

Hank nodded, fearing where this was going. "As I understand it, the Genoshian government called for the execution of key MLF members prior to the terrorist attack here," He said slowly. "It shows that they are not harbouring them, at least."

Greenblatt leaned forward now, arms resting on his knees to affect a casual air that he did not possess. "The Genoshian military regime cannot be trusted. After all, they trained members of the MLF in the first place. They gave them the weapons, they honed their skills. They may as well have planted the bomb aboard that flight."

McCoy was slow to respond at first. He was formulating his words before speaking. "While it is true that the Genoshian government had recruited several key members of the MLF into its army, it was not out of some equal opportunity recruitment drive, General. The MLF was part of the Genoshian mutate scheme, which included the rounding up of known mutants and performing mind altering operations on them to make them perfect fighting machines. The Genoshian government had the flawed perception that they could control their minds as well as their mutant powers, and therefore would make their army unstoppable."

The President nodded. Hank continued. "The Genoshians abandoned the mutate program in the early nineties after years of sanctions imposed by the UN. When the mutates were released, they formed the MLF."

"Thankyou for the history lesson doctor McCoy," Greenblatt snapped. "The MLF's history is quite well documented."

"The point is, General Greenblatt, that ever since the mutates were released, the Genoshian military have been hunting them down and killing them. The Genoshian government also tampered with some of the mutates powers. In some instances, they managed to amplify them to a staggering degree. Such fugitives are dangerous in the eyes of the authorities because they pose a substantial risk to the regime's tenuous hold on power. To say that the Genoshians are withholding the exact whereabouts of the MLF is untrue; they want to find them as much as we do."

President Reynolds sat back in his chair and studied Hank for along moment. Reynolds was a strikingly handsome man with graying blonde hair and a smile that dazzled the public. He was an old football quarterback and he was used to people being drawn to him. He looked younger than his fifty two years, but his sometimes conservative leanings betrayed an old money upbringing. "We all know that the Genoshian regime has been responsible for some of the most shocking human rights violations the world has ever seen. For years, through the economic sanctions we have placed upon them, and through trade sanctions imposed upon them by the UN, the world has been trying to affect a change in that region. But the shocking loss of life on American soil has been this regime's death knell. If they will not comply with our demands to hand over whatever intelligence they have on the MLF, then we will have no choice but to move in. And I'm not entirely convinced that even if we did go in there that we would find anything." The weight of the President's last few words seemed to come down squarely on his shoulders and he slumped into his chair. "General Greenblatt."

"Yes, mister President?"

"We will talk more on this subject later, but right no I need to have a few words with doctor McCoy. In private."

Greenblatt's face seemed to harden like quick drying cement. His mouth was set into a razor sharp line, but he stood up straight, his back rigid, and saluted the President. Reynolds stood and returned the salute, and watched as Greenblatt stalked out of the office. He turned to Hank after her heard the door click shut, and sighed heavily. "Every word of it is true," He said quietly. "If the Genoshians do not co operate with our request we will have no choice, Hank. I will have to order an attack."

Hank shook his head. "There must be another way. To walk this path right now would be folly. I think you realize it too, Mr. President. The MLF are a force to be reckoned with, and they are much more powerful than the army they once fought alongside. Their powers are all advancing so quickly, much more quickly than a normal mutant at the right developmental level. What that means is that we are dealing with a completely new subspecies, and I can't tell you what to expect if you go in there, all guns blazing."

Reynolds breathed heavily through his nose. "I want to show you something." He pulled a thick file out of a drawer and pushed it across the desk's smooth polished surface towards Hank. "This is what we know about the MLF."

Hank opened the file and took out a stack of glossy photos that had been taken with a telephoto lens and digitally enhanced for clarity. They showed a small group of people dressed in black, getting out of a huge combat green van. The next photo was a close up shot of a tall, tanned man with long red hair pulled up into a pony tail. He was half facing the camera and Hank could make out a tattoo tracing down the length of the man's face. "That man is the leader of the MLF. His name is Fabian Cortez. He was one of the original test subjects in the mutate experiments, and reportedly the last one they let go. All up the Genoshians had held him for almost a decade. We have very little intelligence on the other members. Cortez is our man. The others will fall as soon as we have him."

Hank flipped through the papers silently. There was very little information on Cortez at all. What information they had been able to glean was mostly from the now defunct mutate scheme. The file in Hank's hands was a testament to the atrocities the Genoshian government had visited upon its population, especially those who were born with the X factor, that part of their genetic structure that allows the human body to develop extraordinary powers.

Hank closed the file and returned it to Reynolds. "If you take that information to congress, they will laugh you out of office. There are huge holes in the information you have gathered, and I think any fair minded individual would have a hard time justifying war on the back of it."

The President half smiled then, and nodded. "I knew you'd say that, Hank. This is why I asked you here. I need a favor."

Hank cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward. "A favour? What kind of favour?"

It was at this moment that Lillian re-entered the room with Hank's coffee. Normally the president would have kept talking while she was in the room, as he didn't see the need to hide from a woman he trusted so completely, but on this occasion, the President had stopped speaking and chose to shuffle idly through the paperwork on his desk. He thanked Lillian and waited until she had left before speaking again. "Now Hank, I'm gonna be honest with you. What I'm about to propose to you is a mission that could negate the necessity of war. You see, I don't like our chances of turning anything up when we go in there, all guns blazing, as you so eloquently put it. I don't want to put our fighting men and women through that if it can be avoided."

Hank wasn't sure where this was going. "Can it be avoided, James?" He asked the President, and there passed between the two men a look of deep understanding. The President needed Hank's help to stop the madness from going any further.

"I hope with every fibre of my being that it can," The President replied. He opened a drawer and pulled out another folder, placed it on the desk in front of him, and put a hand over it. "This is the file the secret service has kept on you since you began work as an adviser here. Standard procedure of course, just so we don't get any nasty surprises down the road. Your educational history is well documented, including your prep school in Westchester."

Hank felt the words sink in slowly. He felt his stomach lurch. "Xavier's school for Gifted Youngsters, yes... I attended there before Yale."

The President nodded. "The school was involved in a skirmish with a cult known as the Friends of Humanity last year, around about the same time as an inquiry into the school's operations here in Washington. It was alleged that this school was in fact a training camp for young mutants to harness their power to combat such groups as the Friends of Humanity and Magneto's Brotherhood of Mutants. All of this is hearsay of course, but if it were true, Hank…"

"I don't understand what you're asking me."

The President sighed. "Before going any further, I want you to know that this conversation did not happen. I want you to use your influence with Charles Xavier to convince him to send his X-Men into Genosha to find Fabian Cortez. I figure if the Mutates are powerful and have combat training, we should meet them with a similar force head on. Greenblatt is taking steps now to gain enough information he needs to get his proposal through congress. I have stalled on signing off on this but I cannot do so forever. Tell Xavier that if he and his X-Men accept my offer, then funds will be made available to them, and they will have two weeks to find Cortez and bring him back to the states alive. If they are caught or if their mission exceeds the original time frame, I will disavow all knowledge of their mission."

Hank was too stunned to speak. He had never in a million years thought such a thing would be possible. He ran a hand over his face and nodded. "I can take the proposal to him," Hanks said, choosing his words wisely. "But there's no guarantee that he will accept."

The President stood and picked up his phone. "A gesture of good faith then. Of course I would never think of proposing something like this if I didn't have some assurance that the plan would be carried out as ordered." Into the phone, he said, "Lillian, send in Sergeant Summers."

The door opened and Hank McCoy turned to see a tall, thin young man with blonde spiky hair walking towards them, dressed in army greens. He recognized the young man straight away and the shock of his appearance almost rendered him speechless. Well, as speechless as Hank McCoy could ever be. "Oh my stars and Garters," He said under his breath. "Alex Summers."

The President saluted the young man and offered him a seat. "Hank, I believe you already know Sergeant Alex Summers, Codename: Havok."

Hank nodded. He was staring at the younger brother of Scott Summers, his old team mate from Xavier's. 

"I bet you're surprised to see me, Hank," Alex said by way of greeting.

"Well, of course I am. Pleasantly surprised, actually, since we all thought you were dead."


	3. Chapter Three

****

THREE

Victor Morgan ordered another scotch and stared into the honey colored liquid as it was placed before him. He had arrived back in Manhattan after a gruelling Q&A with the FBI. Since he was one of the first on the scene, and he had a connection to one of the passengers, who was in fact a criminal, there was a common thread of thought that placed Morgan as central to the investigation. It wasn't until Celia Reece intervened and assured the FBI agents present that Morgan had already been thoroughly questioned, they let him go.

Celia had promised to call him if anything on his informant turned up, but he was not hopeful. Most of the recovered bodies were burned beyond recognition or had been disintegrated by the intense heat of the blast. The investigators were having a tough time of it already as they tried to sift through the wreckage and identify which bodies belonged to the passenger list and which belong to the every growing list of civilian casualties. Morgan sat at Harry's Bar and sipped his drink and watched the TV above him, which was switched to a cable news channel. It had been three days since the crash and still the media were playing to the nation's grief and sorrow, as well as the bubbling anger that seemed to seep into every editorial, every newscast, and every interview with the man on the street. War was inevitable, it seemed, and Victor Morgan, having been one of the first at the scene after flight 703 went down, had been witness to seeds of war being sewn. 

Morgan gulped down the rest of the drink and ordered another from the bartender, who looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and pity, but poured him another glass anyway. Morgan swirled the two and a half inches of liquid in his glass and looked up as he heard the wooden stool behind him scrape back and a man sat down. Morgan lifted his glass to his new companion, and listened to the gruff voice order whatever Morgan was having. Morgan did not look at the man and sipped his drink. The bartender placed an empty glass on the bar and poured another scotch.

"How did you know I was here, Logan?" Morgan asked.

"I could smell you." Logan no more than wet his lips with the drink before him, and looked at Morgan. Logan was what they call ruggedly handsome, with a long face and a blunt nose, thick black hair and huge sideburns. His piercing blue eyes fixed Morgan with a look of concern. "Heard you've had a pretty bad week."

"Have you now?"

Logan nodded and looked up at the TV, then back at Morgan. "I thought you might like some company while you sit here and get drunk."

"You're welcome to get drunk with me."

"It's what I do best."

Morgan laughed softly and patted Logan on the back. The pair had become drinking buddies after their first meeting at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Morgan had been investigating the disappearance of a young man tied to the Friend of Humanity, and his investigation had led him to Xavier's. When he arrived, the Friends of Humanity had preceded him, and the mansion that housed the school was on fire and the students and staff was under attack. Logan and Morgan had crashed into one another, having arrived at roughly the same time, and it was their presence that ultimately turned the tide. They fought off the remaining Friends of Humanity foot soldiers until the arrival of Xavier, Hank McCoy and Magneto. 

Xavier had helped Magneto escape from his plastic prison, and when Magneto arrived, the leader of the Friends of Humanity, Graydon Creed, had taken the X-Man Storm hostage and escaped in a helicopter. Magneto did not react well to this, and killed creed without blinking an eye. It occurred to Morgan that he should have arrested Magneto then and there and escorted him back to his plastic prison, but Magneto had done a good deed, and in truth, Morgan could have very well suffered the same fate as Creed if he had attempted an arrest anyway.

A chance meeting at Harry's bar, not far from Xavier's school in Westchester, had begun a friendship based on long winded talks about battles fought, won and lost, and drinking to excess on the way to forgetting those battles. Logan and Morgan were two very different men but cut from the same cloth, and while neither would admit it to the other's face, they admired each other greatly. Morgan doubted that Logan's appearance at Harry's on this night was co-incidence. After all, Logan had access to the most powerful telepath on the planet. 

"So, what do you make of all this?" Morgan raised his glass to the television screen, which was showing an aerial image of the crash zone. 

Logan drew a breath and cocked an eyebrow. "I think that war has been waged over less."

Morgan nodded his agreement. "I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do come Monday. On board that plane was an informant who was going to blow a case wide open for me. I could feel I was on the right track with this guy. And now he's gone. Blown to smithereens for all I know."

"That was the attempt to blow up one of the federal buildings downtown, right?

Morgan nodded. The bombing had been foiled due to a tip off they received just one hour before the bomb was timed to go off. The bombing seemed to specifically target the department of immigration, but to date no one had come forth and claimed responsibility for it. That was the problem with these terrorist groups, Morgan thought ruefully. They only want to claim responsibility if the bombing is successful. Morgan had suspected the Aryan Brotherhood was behind this particular unsuccessful attempt. The Aryan Brotherhood was born from the ashes of the Friends of Humanity, with many party faithful jumping ships after Creed's death a year ago. Their hatred had to find an outlet, so the racist Aryan brotherhood was adopted by most of them. The Aryan Brotherhood consisted of mostly white guys, mostly unemployed, and harbored a grudge against everything that deviated from their skin Colour and backgrounds. Morgan's informant was not a part of the group, but had business links to one of the Aryan Brotherhood's front companies. The guys in San Fran held his informant mostly on white-collar stuff, and coming from old money, had his lawyers broker a deal. San Fran flew him out after accepting the deal, and agreed to place the informant in witness protection after giving Morgan what information he had.

"I thought the case was going somewhere finally, but it all went up in smoke, literally." Morgan made a gesture that illustrated the futility of thinking about it too much. Morgan was rarely a man to give up, but at this point, giving up was all he could do to save himself from the distraction of failure. He would chew over every detail in his mind, this much was true, but he would do so only in the background of his other thoughts. It would be stored in a place that Morgan reserved for his failures, and he would allow the ghosts of the victims of flight 703 pick at him, beseeching him to find the answers, bring those responsible to justice.

"It wasn't your fault," Logan said slowly, reaching into his pocket and slapping another twenty down. The bartender caught his eye and put two more glasses in front of them. Morgan noticed the way the man's hand shook when he poured the drinks, and the way he eyed Logan like a wild animal that might chew his arm off. "The crash, the loss of life, the impending war…All of it would still have happened if you hadn't been there. It would have gone exactly like it is now, and there would still be nothing anyone can do to stop it. So stop beating yourself up about it."

Morgan was about to take a sip of his drink and paused, the glass barely touching his lips, and looked at Logan. "How do you know that's what I was thinking?"

"Because," Logan said before gulping his drink down in a quick, savage motion. He winced and cleared his throat before continuing. "I'd be thinking the same thing."

Logan stumbled up the stairs and fumbled with his keys as he leaned against the huge ornate doors that allowed entry to the mansion. He was aware that lights were on inside, and he consulted his watch to confirm it was two in the morning. He frowned in the semi darkness and found the right key, but as he lunged for the door, it opened from the inside and Ororo had to catch him before he fell to the ground. "What time do you call this, Logan?" She said with a smile in her voice. 

"I call it too late for all the lights to be on…" He stood up with her help and they walked into the huge common room to find Charles Xavier, Jean Grey and Hank McCoy in deep conversation. They all looked up as Ororo announced the wanderer had returned.

"I'll make you a coffee," Ororo said as she helped him tale a seat. "Trust me; you're going to need it."

Logan frowned in her direction, but she had already disappeared down the hall. He turned to look at Xavier, who was stroking his chin and giving Hank a deep, questioning look. Jean was perched on the couch nearest Xavier, and Logan had been dumped into the seat next to Hank on the deep plush couch opposite them. "What's going on?" He demanded. His drunken state was already beginning to recede.

"We have been offered a mission," Xavier said quietly. "A highly unusual one at that."

Jean sat forward and expanded upon Xavier's words. "Hank arrived by chopper shortly after midnight, with a companion and a proposal from the President. We have been asked to covertly enter Genosha and bring back the Mutant Liberation Front to face justice for their crime against the US. The president has asked that if we do not bring all members of the MLF back, then we are to capture its leader, Fabian Cortez. What the President has implied is that our interception of the MLF may avert all out war in Genosha."

Logan looked to Xavier. "Sounds like a set up."

Xavier shook his head. "At first, I thought the same thing, Logan, but one must understand the logic behind such an offer. I believe the President genuinely wants to avert a war, and by engaging us on this mission, he may be able to have the reason he needs."

"And he doesn't get his own hands dirty."

Xavier inclined his head. "Nevertheless, his proposal is a politically risky one. If we fail, then he will have no choice but to proceed to invade Genosha. As you know, General Greenblatt has organized some troops to be flown to Genosha's borders just in case. If we accept this mission, we will have two weeks to locate the MLF and get out of the country. This will not be an easy task."

Ororo returned with Logan's coffee, and perched on the edge of the couch next to him. "Can we not use Cerebro to detect their whereabouts?"

Xavier sighed. "Unfortunately not. Cerebro can only be utilized one of two ways: First, to detect the unique brain waves of mutants all over the planet. Its secondary use is to track human beings. Mutates are a different species yet again. I have been able to only detect the faintest readings on the mutates of Genosha, mainly because of the genetic similarities between mutates and mutants. The Genoshians not only tampered with their powers, but also performed operations to insert mind controlling devices into their brains."

Ororo nodded her understanding. "So, we go into Genosha blind. Do you think that's wise, Charles?"

Xavier shook his head. "Hank and I are going to try modifying Cerebro to pinpoint the mutates' particular brain patterns. But such a thing will not be easy and it may take up too much time."

Logan could not believe what he was hearing. That the President would make an offer to the X-Men after what had happened last year, with the school being investigated and then attacked by Graydon Creed, Logan would have thought they were the last place he would turn to. He took a sip of Ororo's coffee and considered what was being proposed. Getting to Genosha would be a cinch in the Blackbird, and evading capture would be difficult but not impossible, but finding the MLF, who hid in the system of caves on the outskirts of Humluk city, the capital of Genosha, and never stayed anywhere longer than twenty four hours? Now, even for an experienced tracker like him that would pose a problem. He expressed this to Xavier in not so many words. 

"I understand your apprehension, Logan, I really do. But think about it. We are the only force on earth equipped with what is needed to match the MLF. It may not be an easy fight, but I believe we should seize this opportunity. The world does not need another war, Logan."

Logan nodded and sipped his coffee in silence. Hank leaned his elbows on his knees and fixed Xavier with a look of gratitude and hope. "I'll tell him we'll do it," He said. He stood up and excused himself. Xavier looked at Jean for some confirmation that he had made the right decision, and instead he only found his own uncertainty mirrored in her face. 

"Where's Cyclops?" Logan asked. He had only been vaguely aware that Cyclops was not in attendance, as he was with every meeting the group ever had.

"He's outside, talking to someone."

"Who?"

"His brother Alex."

Logan saw something glimmer in here eyes then. Although Cyclops and Jean had been apart since Creed's invasion, they had remained close. Logan saw that something lingered there. He fought the desire to hug her, because he wasn't sure if it was his comfort she wanted. Logan realized that while he was closer to obtaining her love than he ever had before, the process was excruciatingly slow and painful. The problem was there weren't many places for her to hide from her ex-fiancé. So much had happened since Creed's attack and Logan wasn't sure where he stood with Jean anymore. She could be at once tender and distant with him, and she still refused to share his bed as she did with Cyclops. 

Ororo sighed. "It is late, and we've all got a lot to think over," she said quietly. "I think Scott and Alex have a lot to talk about. We should all retire and leave them to it."

Alex Summers was a more striking figure than his brother. He was taller, and while he did not posses the same defined musculature of his brother, he was possessed of a lithe, graceful frame that played down the power in his limbs. He stood stock still, displaying the rigid military training that had shaped his young life, and watched as his older brother tried to grapple with the knowledge that he was alive. They had never been particularly close, and their first meeting in ten years was not an emotional one. The two men actually sized each other up before Scott launched into an interrogation, asking why, how, who, when?

Alex had waited for his brother to calm down before offering to take their conversation outside so that doctor McCoy could explain things to the others. They stood out on the second floor balcony now, the air turning chill and promising the rain, and with it another bitter New York winter. "They took me to the orphanage when they found me," Alex said softly, not knowing how to fill the gaps of a ten year disappearance. "Mom and Dad were killed instantly, but I survived the plane crash and my unconscious body floated out to sea and washed up on a beach in California. When I came to, they informed me that I was the only survivor. Since Mom and Dad kept your whereabouts secret from me, I couldn't tell them who you were, or where you were. In the end they put me in a foster home. I was raised by Colonel Robert Jacobs and his wife, Katherine. They desperately wanted a son, and they desperately wanted him to follow in the great colonel's footsteps and become a Marine. In time, I forgot that I even had a brother still alive out there, somewhere, and it wasn't until recently that I started to search for you again."

"But they told me no one survived—"

"They found the wreck but no bodies. It's common in light plane crashes, especially over the sea. They assumed all on board had perished and no one thought to search the hospital records in California In the end, when the Californian authorities couldn't find next of kin for me, I was turned over as a ward of the state."

Scott nodded. He understood, but he didn't think he could comprehend the enormity of what Alex was saying. If only he had known, if only he could have told the authorities that Alex was alive, then they could have sent him to Xavier's, and then he would at least be with one of his family. "I'm sorry, Alex. I wish I'd known."

"How could you have?" Alex smiled then, and Scott could see himself in that smile. They shared many attributes but Alex was bestowed with their mother's beauty. Their father was a handsome man, and Scott looked almost exactly like him.

"I've been assigned to act as an unofficial liaison between the X-men and the President. The President felt that it would be advantageous to the mission to have someone with you who knows the Genoshian landscape well and extensive combat experience. I was selected out of a group of twenty men for the assignment, but I did not know at the time that it would lead me here."

This time Scott smiled. "How could you have?"

Alex laughed softly and leaned against the railing. "Xavier has got a nice set up here. Huge grounds, high tech security systems and state of the art equipment." He turned to look at his brother. All he could see in the darkness was his visor glowing red. "But are the X-Men ready for Genosha?"

"We've been trained for all situations. We've fought against many opponents," Scott replied.

"Training's all well and good, but once we get there, on the ground, nobody knows what to expect. Most of these mutates are far more dangerous than any mutant, and we have no idea what they are capable of." 

Scott nodded. "Understood."

Alex walked back towards the French doors that led back to the mansion, and paused to place a hand on Scott's shoulder. "It's good to see you again, big brother." 


	4. Chapter Four

****

FOUR

Celia felt the beginnings of a migraine curl around her temples. Her back ached and he vision was blurred. Her whole body was crying out for her to surrender, at least for the night. She stifled a yawn and tried to re focus on the black and white photograph in front of her, but it was no use. Sleep was trying to claim her. She stood up and looked around her office. Document boxes were piled high everywhere she looked. Manila folders were stacked precariously in front of her; all demanding her immediate attention, but she could not stand anymore of it. 

She was always the last one to leave her office, and the first one there in the morning when a big case was in the offing. She knew that every second counted when a case as big as this one landed in her lap. She realized almost sadly that she did not have to take this one on. Her colleague, Mike Derando, had offered to take it off her hands if she didn't feel up to it, and she felt almost offended by his offer of help. She had been assigned to it, and she would finish it. She didn't care if she had to cut short her planned holiday. Derando was a good man, and she could have used his assistance with this one, but he was caught up with an investigation in Switzerland now, and would not be home for six weeks. 

Celia had received the passenger manifestos when she arrived back at the office a day after the crash. While the recovery of debris was taking a while, she thought she'd get a head start on the paperwork. There would be no serious investigation of the wreckage until it was all in a hangar and pieced back together like some macabre jigsaw puzzle. Her initial crash site investigation had yielded some interesting results, and she has been poring over the photographs taken at the scene when sleep tried to claim her. She picked up the photograph she had been scrutinizing and yawned again. Tiny cracks in one of the engines, all reaching like spindly fingers in the same direction; towards the cockpit. The explosion had come from the back, of that she was already certain, but studying these photographs, she could not work out what type of explosives was used. Usually, the type was obvious due to the distinct burn pattern on the metal, the stress fractures, and the sequence of the plane's disintegration, but this one would be more difficult to ascertain. 

The black box flight recorder had not been recovered as yet, but this did not surprise her. The cockpit was almost intact, but after ploughing through those apartment blocks, there was no telling what was thrown where. The clean up for the town of Newhope would be massive and heart wrenching. She hoped she could wrap up this case and expedite their suffering. But her assertions to Morgan earlier that she was certain that a liquid propellant was used to aide the explosion was drying up before her eyes. She was no longer certain of anything. The fact that they had found no trace of the most commonly used liquid propellants on any piece of debris that they had recovered thus far, was a significant slap in the face to her theory. It could be argued that an explosion of this size would need liquid propellants, or some liquid agent, for the resulting conflagration to have caused such widespread damage, effectively dropping the plane out of the sky.

Her vertebrae clicked as she stretched. Her mind was trying to take every fact that was presented and bend it into the mould she's already set. She knew this would happen, in fact she warned herself against it when Morgan was telling her about his lost informant. The fact that the MLF had claimed responsibility did not necessarily make it so. There had been incidences before where an obscure terrorist group would claim responsibility for an explosion after seeing the news coverage and needing some exposure. They were chasing some measure of celebrity. Celia had never heard of the MLF before this, but others who had were taking the matter very seriously, especially those in the white house.

She gathered up some files and slid them into her briefcase before heading out of her office, snapping the lights off as she went. Too many times she had been caught asleep at her desk in the early mornings, so the idea of sleeping in her own bed was a novelty.

She made her way for the exit that led to the underground car park, and swiped her magnetic security pass to open the huge metal doors. They opened on a small elevator, which she rode to sub level three, and fished in her pockets for her car keys just as the elevator slid onto her level. She was not looking up when she walked out of the elevator and she did not see the young man with a baseball bat until he stepped out of the shadows in front of her and swung it at her head in a sweeping arc.

Bobby Drake woke up with a start. Something was wrong. He looked around his dorm room to find his roommates asleep. He consulted his bedside clock. The digital readout told him it was 7:30am. He pushed back the sheets and padded out into the hallway in his boxer shorts. The mansion was quiet, and there was no one about in the common room, which was odd for this time of morning. He scratched his head and ventured into the kitchen, where he found Logan, sitting alone and nursing a coffee. He relaxed a little and sat down opposite him. "Where is everyone else?" He asked.

Logan sighed and looked at Bobby over the rim of his coffee mug. "We're about to go on a mission," Logan responded. "Cyclops and Havok are making some repairs to the blackbird, Jean and Ororo are in the Danger Room and the Professor and Hank are making some upgrades to Cerebro."

Bobby frowned. "Who's Havok?"

"Cyclops' brother."

"But I though he was an orphan."

Logan shrugged. "He arrived with Hank last night. We're heading to Genosha."

"No way!"

Logan fixed Bobby with a frown. The awe in the boy's voice irritated him. "The professor agreed to take on a mission for the government. We're leaving tonight."

Bobby was clearly floored by this news. Since his display of courage and strength during Creed's attack, Xavier had been working closely with Bobby in readiness for him to become an X-Man. Bobby was the envy of all his classmates to be the youngest X-Man on the current roster. Logan knew that Bobby would want in on this mission, but the boy's lack of experience would not be useful to them. He had put forward his concerns to Xavier last night, and Xavier nodded his agreement. "I'll let Bobby know my decision in the morning," Xavier had said, and wheeled away.

Thus far, Xavier was still held up fixing Cerebro. Logan scratched his chin. "Maybe you should sit this one out, eh?"

Bobby frowned. "You don't want me on this mission?"

Logan sipped his coffee and chose his next words carefully. "There are certain factors we need to consider here. First is that you have barely finished your Danger Room training, and secondly, we are entering a war zone. We can't afford to risk bringing a new recruit along because we are gonna have our hands full just trying to survive ourselves."

"I know what the dangers are, Logan."

"No, I don't think you do. 

Bobby pushed aside his chair violently, and skulked out of the room, full of rage at the injustice of the situation.

Alex stared at the control panel in front of him and tried to conceal his awe. The technology that the X-men possessed was light years ahead of what the armed services were even testing at this point in time. The Blackbird itself was sleek, flat and light. Its engines were a purr to the ears of any trained aviation mechanic. The craft itself could accommodate twenty people easily, and on board there were medical supplies and survival gear if the worst happened. Alex touched the control panel lightly, and looked back at his brother.

"This is a beautiful bird," He said quietly. "How many hours have you clocked in this thing?"

"Well over one hundred. Most of our missions require us to fly. We're all trained to fly the Blackbird."

Alex nodded. "Pretty sweet set up. Your own private jet."

Cyclops was underneath the control panel. He had been attempting to unscrew the underside of the thing to gain access to the control unit for the onboard computer. He had a feeling that it needed updating; the co-ordinates lately had been off. Not by much, but he didn't want to leave it to chance. Even a little bit wrong was enough to worry Scott Summers. "It belongs to the school," He said, rather curtly. "Everything here does. The Professor has invested a lot into his dream."

"And he set up the X-Men to… what?" Alex replied. "_Enforce_ his dream?"

Scott sighed. He slid out from under the control panel and looked at his younger brother for the first time since he had arrived. Really looked at him. They were two unconnected people, really. They had grown up in different worlds. They may have spent their early childhoods together, but now neither man knew what to make of the other. Scott wiped his hands on a rag that hung from his belt. "Maybe Xavier's dream won't come to pass," he replied softly. "Maybe humans and mutants won't live in harmony. But all around the world, there are struggles for supremacy. Could you imagine what would happen if a mutant chose to enslave the human race, or if the mutant registration act ever passed? We fight for both sides."

Alex crossed his arms over his chest. "Xavier must be quite a man to have people flock to him and believe in something that much."

Scott nodded. "Don't you believe in the ideals you were taught?"

There was an air of hesitation that seemed to hum like a livewire. Alex looked at his brother for a long time, and there was a distant look in those blue eyes of his. "I don't know. I don't know if I believe much of anything anymore. I follow orders, and I believe I will do my best to carry out those orders. But do I believe in what I fight for?" Alex made an offhand gesture. "I'm paid to do a job. I believe in that."

There passed between the two men an undercurrent of antagonism. Scott's vehement belief that Xavier's dream was not a fable and Alex's glib interpretation of his station in life struck both brothers as foolish, though neither said it. 

After a brief pause, Alex yawned loudly and began to walk towards the exit hatch set into floor of the cockpit. His boots clanged against the metal staircase and Cyclops could hear the footsteps receding down the long hallway which led from the hangar back to the mansion. He felt a pang of remorse that he had not been around to get to know his brother better. He felt even worse that he did not even like the man. 

Xavier turned to Hank and looked into his old student's eyes. They had been working most of the night into the early morning to modify Cerebro, but after several false starts, and two aborted attempts at drawing a bead on Fabian Cortez, both men, who were not used to failure, had to give up and admit defeat. The very nature of Cerebro was the problem, Hank had theorised; it was designed with a two-fold purpose, and while Magneto and Xavier had both built the machine so that it could be easily upgraded when the technology was available, they had not considered that another species would be introduced in their lifetimes. When Cerebro was finished, the human world was still trying to grapple with the idea of sharing the planet with another-arguably superior-race. 

That mankind was responsible for this latest mutation seemed ironic to Xavier.

"I don't see how we can go into Genosha without having a more exact idea of where Cortez is hiding," Hank said. He had long ago switched off his image inducer, which concealed the blue fur that covered his body. His glasses sat on his cat-like nose and he swiped them off with a huge hand. .

"Cerebro can at least pick up a faint signature," Xavier replied. "We know where to start. Beyond that we will have to trust in the instincts of our resident tracker."

Hank smiled. "Logan, you mean."

Xavier nodded. "His heightened sense of smell and the tracking abilities that were taught to him by an aboriginal man named Gateway. Logan doesn't remember much of his past before the weapon X program, but he remembers Gateway. He remembers the Australian outback. I think because it was a time of happiness for him."

"What else does he remember?"

"Bits and pieces, mostly," Xavier sighed. "He remembers a log cabin somewhere, where he spent his happiest times. I think the log cabin may be just a dream place for him, but the detail I see when I probe his mind…" Xavier's voice trailed off and he realized that Hank was still in the room. "There is still so much he doesn't know about himself. There is much that his mind has been blocked from remembering. Even my abilities cannot penetrate it. I think there is a reason for that."

Hank flipped a switch and the soft neon glow of Cerebro's lights blinked off. Hank walked alongside the professor and once they were outside, the metal door slid shut with a whisper of metal against metal. The huge Locks clicked into place and they continued walking up the long, tiled hallway until they reached the elevator that would take them to the mansion above. Hank was silent for the smooth ride up to the legitimate face of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. In his youth, Hank McCoy was an exuberant, cocky wordsmith who could talk at length on any subject while going through a backbreaking aerial display of acrobatics. He was popular among his fellow students at Xavier's, and it was widely assumed he would naturally become an X-Man when he graduated. But of all his students, Xavier knew that Hank did not believe he could achieve any real change by joining the team. So this beast devised a holographic image inducer to cover his mutation and walk freely amongst humans, and he would go on to become a world-renowned geneticist and scholar. The X-Men's loss was the world's gain. 

But somewhere along the line, Hank McCoy stopped laughing. He was still partial to launching into long-winded monologues on everything from the world economic climate to the arguments for and against cloning, but his demeanour was no longer exuberant, or cocky. Lately, it had become subdued, dipping sometimes into almost sheer depression. 

"Charles," Hank said as they re-entered the mansion proper, greeted by the red plush carpets and the smell of polish and faint antiseptic. "Do you think it might be wise to contact Magneto to…Help?" He stopped, clamping his mouth shut as if he were biting back his words. His catlike yellow eyes slid to Xavier, seeking confirmation that he had said the wrong thing.

Xavier smiled to indicate that it was quite all right. "If I knew how to contact him, I may have considered it," Xavier replied. "But wherever he is, he is not within reach. And I'm not entirely sure I could trust him."

Hank shrugged. "It was worth a shot." Hank considered Magneto's helping them as a debt repaid for Xavier's decision to break the Master of Magnetism out of his plastic prison a year ago. Magneto may have come to their rescue at the eleventh hour when Creed had attacked but in Hank's eyes, he owed them a lot more. It was by Xavier's decision alone that he was granted freedom.

"I don't think a mission like this would appeal to Erik," Xavier said dismissively, with the tone of one who had indeed considered such a possibility very much. "In fact, I know it would not. Our goal is to find a fellow mutant and bring him to the human authorities to face trial. Such a thing would be unspeakable." There was a bitter smile on Xavier's lips. 

"I've been puzzling over the fact that Magneto would go into hiding after killing Creed," Hank said. "He had just done the world a service, in his eyes. It struck me as odd that he didn't capitalize on that glory and try to gather more supporters."

Xavier nodded but did not comment on Hank's musings. He had been searching for his old friend for most of the year that separated Graydon Creed's ill-fated attack on the school and the current events in Genosha. Magneto's disappearance was at once puzzling and infuriating. Xavier knew Magneto had gone into hiding for a reason. 

"You do know," Hank continued. "That the government has in place a series of protocols in the event Magneto reappears and tries to finish what he started on Liberty Island. The U.N has also adopted a similar policy."

Xavier cocked an eyebrow. "They see him as a threat. It does not surprise me at all. If Erik really wanted to, he could destroy every weapon, every missile, and every safeguard…. He is far more dangerous than a hostile nation." 

"But do you think such a measure would work?"

"No." Xavier's expression seemed to be almost one of regret. His old friend would not know a seconds peace if the government-or the X-Men-had their way. He would become a prisoner once again. Magneto had the powers of a god, and that's what scared the humans. "I think it would only serve as provocation."

Hank shuddered at the thought. He had played a hand in the defeat of the mutant registration bill proposed by the late Senator Kelly. The President had taken the extraordinary step to dismantle the bill shortly after winning office, despite vehement opposition to any real changes regarding mutant rights. While Hank considered this a defining moment in his political career, it was a moment when he realized that he was making a lot of enemies. Those same men were now spoiling for war. News of Magneto's escape had ignited the ashes of the defunct proposal to register every mutant living in the United States, and catalogue and monitor their powers. The proponents of the registration act cited Magneto's terrorism campaign, which culminated in a struggle with the X-men atop the Statue of Liberty. What else a similarly inclined mutant would be capable of unleashing did not bear contemplating, they said. 

Hank could only hope that Magneto's actions did not make matters any worse for the world's mutant population. 

Celia sat up slowly, feeling the firm, steady grip of a security guard. He knelt before her and gazed with a frown into her face. "Dr. Reece? Are you OK?"

Pain screamed at her from the back of her head and she gave the guard a sharp look. He was all of twenty two years old and his face bore the earnestness of his age. His long, pale face was handsome and shadowed by the bill of his hat. "I'll live," She said softly. 

"Do you feel like you can walk?"

"He hit me over the head, he didn't kneecap me." Celia instantly regretted the tone of her voice. She laid a hand over Kent's and they stood up together. She felt a little woozy and she had to lean against him to get her bearings while the world swam. She had somehow lost one of her high heels, and she kicked off the other one to keep her balance. 

"Did you see anything?" Kent asked. 

She shook her head. "He just came up behind me and hit me with something hard, and I saw stars and went down."

They were walking back to the office when Celia turned around suddenly and slapped her forehead, drawing a quizzical look from Kent. "My briefcase, he must have taken it." 

"You had it with you when you left the building?"

"As always," She nodded. "I never leave without it. I'm forever taking work home with me."

Kent nodded and smiled. He should have known that since he had watched her come and go from the building every day for the past year. "We'll have to call the police." Was all he said.

General Greenblatt sat back in his leather chair and picked up a folder that was placed on his desk by an aide. The huge chair creaked as he leaned forward and ashed his cigar in the crystal ashtray in front of him. Greenblatt was usually a man who followed policy and regulations dogmatically, and usually he would observe the President's no smoking policy, but old habits die hard. He closed the file and looked up at Robert Sanders, his personal assistant. Sanders was a prim, upright public servant who asked no difficult questions and saw to it that Greenblatt's every whim was carried out. He was also held the same aspirations for the coveted oval office as his boss, and he was willing to see to it that the good general was in a winning position after the impending Genoshian war.

"Why would Reynolds ask for McCoy's help?" He asked Sanders. He threw the file aside and a stack of black and white surveillance photos spilled out. Sanders stooped to pick them up and shuffled them back into order, then slipped them back into the folder.

"Perhaps the President is having second thoughts about sending troops in."

Greenblatt shook his head. "I don't think so. He has been painted into a corner on that score. The people want him to act, the media is baying for blood and he's under a lot of pressure from his own party faithful to go to war. It's not simply a matter of if. This conflict is inevitable."

"But what could McCoy do, realistically?" Sanders asked. "He is only an advisor. The only reason the President would be consulting with him before acting would be to make sure he's nice to the mutants at home while waging war on their kind overseas."

Greenblatt nodded. Sanders had a point. He was usually right about these things. Being locked out of the meeting between Reynolds and McCoy was an ego blow, to be sure, but it might not indicate that they were plotting something. Greenblatt knew the President's aversion to conflict was shared by the erstwhile Dr. McCoy, but there was nothing either of them could do to stop the impending war. 

"I need to take something to the people," Greenblatt said after a short silence. "I need to show them that we as Americans must act to stop the brutality that the Genoshian people are suffering at the hands of those in power. I need images, I need evidence." Greenblatt's eyes flicked up to Sanders. "Can you arrange that for me, Robert?"

Robert Sanders puffed up like a peacock showing its feathers. "Certainly, sir."


	5. Chapter Five

"My God, Celia, how could you have been so careless?" 

Celia squirmed in her chair and looked up at Wesley Dempster, her immediate boss and through some quirk of fate and bad judgment, her ex-husband. They had been working together as husband and wife for five years until both parties realized that the marriage was only a diversion for them. That Wesley had risen to become her superior after their divorce was a source of constant annoyance for Celia; it was almost as if he needed to emphasize the power imbalance that had been present during their brief troubled marriage. He was a handsome man at 42 years old, fashionable and fiercely intelligent. Many of the agents working under him remarked on his cold demeanor and forthright way of speaking, and most wrote it off to arrogance. Celia knew better but out of spite, she did not correct their assumptions. 

She cleared her throat and brushed her hair behind her ears. "You know I always bring work home with me," She said calmly. Her voice came out too small in Wesley's huge oak paneled office. Every time she found herself here, she couldn't stop a little voice in the back of her head chanting, this could have been yours. "We're under enough pressure as it is to hand down a report quickly."

He nodded, almost as if he could see her point. Of course, these little concessions were a trick of his. It lulled her into believing he understood her position, when in fact he would silently concede and give nothing away. "We've all been under immense pressure lately," He replied. "And I know you have been pulling extra hours to get through the investigation as soon as possible. But you have to understand how bad this looks. This is a high profile case and a war could possibly be waged on our investigation's findings. Losing an important document like this could be damaging to the department."

Celia met his eyes and she could see he was worried about more than the department's reputation. He was worried that his ex wife will serve him up on a platter out of some skewed need for revenge. Celia had to admit to herself that humiliating Wesley would bring her some measure of satisfaction, but she liked to think that they could both act like adults. Like professionals. "They took my briefcase and my handbag. I would guess that a bum found his way into the building's secure car park and waited until someone left alone. And I'm fine by the way. Thanks for the concern." She pushed her chair back, making sire it scraped over the newly polished floor boards, and stood up. Wesley was already coming around his desk to stop her from leaving, but she held a hand up as he approached. 

"I'm sorry. I wasn't…I didn't mean it like that. Damn it, Celia! You know I didn't."

She shook her head. "It's alright, Wesley. This is not the first time you've thought of yourself before anyone else."

"I resent that implication."

"I wasn't implying. I was stating a fact."

His mouth set itself into a hard line and he let out a long breath through his nostrils. She opened the door without looking at him and exited the office before her eyes filled with tears. She stalked down the corridor which led back to her office and tried to let her anger burn through her tears. She did not want Wesley to win. Not this easily. He knew what effect his words would have, and he feigned ignorance when they achieved the desired effect. She did not want him to have even a little victory over her this time. She opened her office door and entered without her secretary, Gina, seeing her. She sat heavily in her chair and rubbed her temples to alleviate the throbbing that had developed before she was summoned to Wesley's office. She shouldn't have been surprised by his behavior; five years of marriage should have taught her that much. She was more surprised by her own reaction. She should have handled the meeting professionally, handled his criticism with the same cool and even tone she used every day on the job. She was so lost in thought that she almost did not hear her phone ringing. Without thinking, she answered. "Your apology is not accepted, Wesley," She snapped into the receiver.

There was a brief silence on the other end, before a vaguely familiar male voice answered her. "Doctor Reece? Did I call at a bad time?"

She frowned. "Who is this?"

"It's Vic Morgan. Don't tell me you've forgotten already."

"Of course, I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere."

"Obviously. Who's Wesley?"

"That would be none of your business, detective."

"If you're going to confuse me with him, I think I should know who this Wesley character is."

She found herself smiling despite her black mood. "Was there something I could help you with, detective Morgan? Or do you randomly call women and harass them like this?"

"That would be telling. I did actually call on a purely professional level. You gave me your card back at the crash site in case I came across any helpful information."

She leaned forward, all pretense of amusement leaving her face. "Yes?"

"Would it be possible to meet some place and talk?"

She gripped her phone and felt her stomach tighten. She wasn't sure if he was baiting her or he actually did have something good. "Sure," She replied. "There's a bar not far from here. Does a mean steak and salad. It's called Cube."

"Yeah, I know the place."

"Say 8 O'clock?"

"No problem. See you then."

Celia replaced the receiver with a smile spreading across her face.

  


  


Alex stood up as a holographic 3 dimensional map flickered to life in the middle of the room. It threw colors across the assembled mutants like a huge kaleidoscope. The X-Men and their mentor watched as Alex rotated the image and zoomed in for a more detailed view of a ring-like mountain system that surrounded a city. The tops of the buildings could be seen clawing their way over the mountains in some places. "OK, Genosha 101. What you're looking at here is an aerial view of Genosha's capital. As you can see, it is surrounded on all sides by mountains. These mountain ranges are the first defense the Genoshians have from invasion, and the reason why several neighbouring states will not even attempt what we're about to do."

"Perhaps you could have called this Genosha for Dummies." Hank said dryly. Jean shushed him. 

Alex smiled and continued. "Genoshian airspace is restricted, and since the mountains mark the beginning and end of Genosha for the rest of the world; unauthorized aircraft found traveling past will be shot down. Now mostly, commercial airliners do not pass over Genosha for this reason. Several Russian spy planes have been taken down and more US jets than I could count. This is why so little intelligence has been gathered on its military installations. The first hurdle for this mission is getting past the mountains and into Genoshian airspace without detection."

"That will not be a problem," Scott said firmly. "The Blackbird has been fitted with cloaking devices and a stealth mode that renders the plane almost invisible to the naked eye."

Alex looked at his brother for a few moments before speaking. "You'd better hope that they don't pick it up, because you will have no warning before they attack. Military protocol is not their strong point. You probably won't even know they've locked onto you until a missile rips you to shreds."

Logan leaned forward and squinted at the map. "The mountains house cave systems don't they?"

"Numerous cave systems are riddled throughout this area," Alex replied, indicating the areas with a laser pointer. "It is believed the MLF use them evade detection. The Genoshian authorities have encountered many ambushes because the caves have never been fully surveyed, mapped out. The MLF are said to have an intimate knowledge of the mountains and therefore they have the distinct advantage."

Logan nodded, not taking his eyes off the hologram in front of him. Xavier looked at Logan with concern. "What are your thoughts, Logan?"

Doubt etched itself into Logan's brow as he spoke. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. "It's going to be difficult," He said slowly. He rubbed his unshaven chin and stood up, walking around the holograph. He turned to Alex. "Can you alter the view so we can see over the cliffs?"

Alex punched some buttons on a wrist mounted controller and the image pixilated and then came back into focus. The holograph now showed a view of Genosha's capital city from somewhere at the base of the mountains. "The second we deactivate the cloaking shield, which we have to do to land, they will blow us apart." Logan pointed to five metal boxes nestled in a forest of jagged rocks at the entrance to the city. "These are motion-sensor controlled surface to air missiles. They will lock onto us within seconds. Look at the spacing and the angles. We wouldn't stand a chance."

Alex nodded. "That's the first of many obstacles we will encounter when we enter the city proper."

Jean shook her head. "Wonderful."

They fell into silence for a few moments, each pondering the mission ahead of them. Xavier could pick the despairing, the insecurity, and the apprehension. It washed over him like a cold wind. The only one present that showed no discernable emotion, outwardly or inwardly, was Alex Summers, who seemed to sense the mood and snapped off the hologram, plunging them in darkness for a few seconds until the lights in the conference room came back up. "It's not impossible," He said quickly. "It has been done before."

"He's right," Logan said. "It is possible. We will most likely evade detection until we get into the city. But when we're there, we have the Magistrates to worry about."

Cyclops leaned forward. "Maybe I'm missing something, but don't we have to be at a court of law to go against a Magistrate?"

Logan and Alex exchanged amused looks and Alex shook his head "Not in Genosha. The Magistrates are an elite unit of 'protectors' that roam the streets in highly organized patrols. They are skilled, highly trained and armed to the teeth. Rarely would you come across a more dangerous bunch of zealots. They have the powers of police officers, but their arrests are usually carried out in the most aggressive, deadly ways. Usually mutants are dragged back to the jail cells dead or dying. They were set up with the sole purpose of dealing with mutant insurgents, particularly the MLF. We don't know how well manned the Magistrate division is, but we do know that they are a force to be reckoned with."

Xavier nodded. "Thankyou, Alex. That was most informative." The lights came up and they sat in silence for a few moments. "The information that you gathered is the most comprehensive I've seen," Xavier said, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Am I right in assuming they gave you this role because you have first hand knowledge of the situation in Genosha?"

Alex ducked his head and met Xavier's eyes across the room. His blue eyes shimmered and danced for a moment. Xavier did not want to probe the young man's mind for the information; the empathic wave that washed over him was enough. "I have seen it, you're quite correct."

Logan cocked his head to the side, eyebrows knit. "You got out alive." Logan's tone was one of awe, hushed and with an upwards lift to the last word, as if he was unsure if he should have asked a question. The haunted look in Alex Summers' eyes Logan had seen in survivors before, and that look also stared back at himself in the mirror.

"Yeah, I got out alive. One of the few."

  


  


Morgan was already seated at the polished chrome and neon lighted bar when Celia entered. She had rushed home from work to lightly apply some makeup and change her clothes, and she felt slightly self conscious as he looked up from his drink and waved her over. Her high heels clicked on the polished marble floor as she walked hesitantly towards the bar. She forced a smile onto her lips and slipped onto the bar stool beside him. "I'm sorry I'm late," She said softly, tucking her hair behind her ears. 

"No problem. The table isn't ready anyway," He replied with a crooked smile. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt, no tie, under a grey sports jacket and matching pants. Celia looked down at her flowing champagne coloured dress with too-expensive high heeled shoes and felt a fool for over dressing. The truth of it was she very rarely got the chance to dress up, preferring instead her conservative work wardrobe to the feminine excesses that her mother and sister chose. 

Morgan swirled his drink once, and sipped. She noticed this as a practiced movement for him; he was self consciously trying not to knock back his gin. "What are you drinking?" He asked.

"Oh, a mineral water will be fine," She said. 

"In a pig's eye. After the day you've had, you can have a martini and like it." He waved the bartender over and ordered for her, slapping a twenty down on the bar before she could go rummaging in her handbag to retrieve her purse. 

Celia raised an eyebrow at him. "And just how would you know what sort of day I've had?"

He shrugged and took another measured sip. "You know police are terrible gossips. How's the head?"

"Better, thankyou."

"Good to hear. And the passenger manifest that was in your bag?"

She paused before responding. She had deftly sidestepped the issue of the contents of her stolen briefcase when a uniformed officer came to question her. She was vague about the contents, simply stating that it held "important documents." She was impressed that Morgan had put two and two together. The bartender placed the martini glass in front of her, and she raised her glass to him. "I expect if whoever took it realize what they've got, I may be able to buy it back on EBay."

He chuckled and raised his glass, too. "Here's to the commerce of death on a massive scale. If you're close enough to a tragedy, you can sell shrapnel on the internet to the highest bidder!" They clinked their glasses and Celia sipped her drink, realizing as the alcohol hit the back of her throat that she needed it sorely. 

She stared into the martini glass and shuddered. "I just hope it doesn't become public knowledge. I don't think I could stand having my professional responsibility questioned in the mainstream media."

He smiled, but the humour in his smile was only slight. Something danced in his eyes then, so quickly that Celia almost missed it. "Try joining the police force."

A waiter approached them, menus in hand, and informed them that their table was ready. They followed him into the restaurant and once they were seated, Celia picked up the thread that he had so tantalizingly dangled in front of her. "You're speaking from experience?"

He looked up from his menu with a slight frown. "Hm? Oh, it's an occupational hazard I'm afraid. You grow to expect being dragged over the coals by journalists, especially if you land a really big case. The higher profile, the bigger the target." He sipped his drink and wet his lips. "I had a case a few years back. Serial killer stalking male prostitutes in the city. It took us a while to realize that the deaths were connected, but in a city this size, a dead rent boy is not cause for concern. Happens every day. But this guy, we think he killed at least seven young men before we were able to work it all out. I was assigned to head up a team to find the guy, and I had the gay rights groups screaming that I wasn't doing enough, the mainstream media all but calling me and my detectives incompetent. We had the victims' families suddenly weeping for the boys they wrote off as worthless fairies on the front page of every major daily. They were grabbing sound bytes on the evening news, on Donahue, even on Larry King Live."

"I can't imagine what that must have been like for you."

Morgan shrugged. "All I was concerned about was finding the animal that was killing these kids."

Celia remembered reading something about the case he was speaking about. "You never found him." It was a statement. She looked eyes with him across the table, and his eyes flashed with that same ripple of emotion she had glimpsed before. 

He gulped the rest of his drink down and shook his head. "I never did. We kept the case open for a good year after the last of the known killings, but this guy just slipped through the cracks. He could be still out there, still doing it, but there's no way of knowing. He could have developed a more sophisticated way of hunting; of disposing of the bodies…He could have killed himself. That was the popular theory among my team."

"What do you think?"

He shrugged again. "I haven't thought about it for a long, long time. I think about it sometimes still, when I have nothing else trying to elbow it out of my head. My gut tells me he's still around, flying below our radars, thinking and knowing that he got away with murder. That man became my white whale."

Celia nodded. She knew his frustration intimately. There were cases in her career that still went unsolved, and she was similarly haunted by them. The prospect of a nameless, faceless monster getting away with such atrocities made her physically ill. She had avoided the professional trap that ensnared Morgan, however. She resisted turning each unsolved case into a personal crusade. She gave every case her all and when that wasn't good enough, and the authorities and media gave up, she walked away. There was little more that could be done when all the grieving was over and anger no longer carried her forward. 

They ordered another round of drinks and when the waiter was out of earshot, Celia leaned forward. "You said you had something to tell me about the case," She said.

He looked up from his menu and nodded. "You asked me to call if I remembered anything unusual about the day. Anything that could have relevance to the investigation."

"Yes?" She prompted, not wanted to sound pushy but knowing her voice was betraying her. 

Morgan sighed and ran a hand over his face. "OK, this could be nothing, but when I was in my car driving away from Newhope in the minutes before the crash, something actually fell from the sky and landed on the hood of my car. I didn't pay it any mind at the time, because it was an ordinary thing…Well, when you're talking about things that fall out of the sky…"

She nodded impatiently. "And?"

Her sat back and reached into his coat pocket, then slowly produced a huge white feather. At first Celia thought she was looking at an eagle feather, but she then realized that it couldn't be. The thing was well over 30 inches long. She reached across the table and took it from Morgan's hand. "This fell onto your hood?" She asked quietly, meeting his eyes over the edge of the huge feather.

"That's what I just said," He replied. "And it struck me as odd. Like I said, it could mean nothing, but this is unlike any feather that I've ever seen. I don't know much about birds, but this either came from a giant, or…"

"Or something that may have fallen from the plane," She said, her voice still a monotone. "Have you spoken to any of my crash investigators, detective Morgan?"

He sat back and frowned, shook his head. "I haven't had the time. I was interviewed by the FBI, as you'll recall, but I didn't tell them about the feather."

She put the feather on the table between them and the waiter returned with their drinks and enquired whether they would like to order. They ordered quickly, almost absent mindedly, and when he receded into the white noise of the restaurant, they locked eyes again. Morgan was trying to discern her mood and Celia was trying to frame the right words in her head. "We've found several of these feathers strewn about the wreckage, in the rotors of the engines. We have been baffled by them for some time. Some of my investigators like the idea of a freak bird flying into one of the turbines, but I don't like the chances of that being the reality. At this point, only those close to the investigation have this knowledge. Now you produce this feather and say it fell onto your hood just minutes before the crash."

Morgan nodded. "So it was significant?"

She was guarded in her response. "I think it's an important piece of evidence, and certainly a very strange one."

They sipped their drinks and did not look at each other for a few moments, letting the noise around them fill the gap that the absence of a conversation had left between them. They were both contemplating the whys of the situation. Morgan had considered the finding of the feather a triviality-a rare specimen, yes-but no more than that. "So what could this mean?" He asked. 

Celia frowned. "I think I need to talk this over with a colleague of mine. He's a veteran, someone who's seen it all. Once all the data is in, he'll help me collate it and from there we can draw up a clear story of what happened to flight 706."

"But you don't have that time."

Celia's expression shifted to one of mild annoyance; no more than a slight crease of her brow and a pout of her mouth, but it was enough for Morgan to know his words were redundant because Celia had been telling herself that all along. "I know," She said at last. "God help me, I know."


	6. Chapter Six

****

SIX

The ground beneath Logan's feet crunched as he walked barefoot, not registering the hot earth scorching his flesh. The sun beat down on his skin mercilessly and sweat dripped from his brow. He licked his lips and tasted the coppery tang of his own sweat. It was the closest to water that had touched his tongue on this long journey. His body was near breaking point and his bones felt curiously brittle. 

The wasteland in front of him stretched for miles in every direction but up-the deep blue sky kissed the cracked brown earth with what he assumed was tenderness, or maybe teasing it with the promise of rain that never came. He knew he was searching for something, someone…but his mind could not recall the details in the assault the heat lashed upon it. He was prone to seeing strange beings: a blue furred beast, a bird made of fire and a man who seemed to be made completely of ice. They all dissolved and swam in front of him, and then he remembered why he was here. He had to find Gateway, ask him the way. Gateway knew how to get to most places with barely an upward glance. He wasn't a real talkative kinda guy, but you got used to him. The little Aborigine had last been seen traveling in these parts; he remembered one of the police officers in Alice Springs saying so. He suspected the cop pegged him for an adventure hungry American tourist. 

Then, like another mirage, Gateway appeared in front of him. Gateway had aged considerably since their last encounter, which as far as Logan could remember, thirty years ago; the thinning grey hair was almost white, in shocking contrast to his dark face. His beard was also turning the same color, although it would be a while before the white took over completely. Gateway's glittering eyes danced like the shimmering heat around them. 

"You have to show me something," Logan said, keeping a respectful distance from the legendary tracker. "That's why you've brought me back here isn't it?"

Gateway just stared back. He always stared. Logan clamped down hard on his frustration and tried again. "We're about to embark on a journey. Where will our path lead?"

The old Aborigine smiled then, and sat down on the flat earth. His ribs stuck out obscenely underneath his skin, but he had a paunch like belly that reminded Logan of a man who had lived well and gone to seed. Logan sat down too, crossing his legs like Gateway. Gateway produced a flat, elliptical wooden object which was tied to a very long piece of string. He was still smiling and threw the flat object onto the ground between them, giving him enough rope to use it. 

"Woomera." Logan said, pointing to the object between them. 

Gateway nodded and with surprising swiftness, he began to swing the Woomera above his head. It began to whine as the flattened wood sang through the air. The device was being swung faster and faster and Logan could see it was shimmering. At first he thought it was a trick of the heat, but then he noticed it again. The huge oval that Gateway was creating in the air was rippling with energy. Logan leaned forward and waited for whatever was about to happen next. (With Gateway it was always hard to guess.) 

The rippling got faster too, until the ripples vanished and an image appeared in the spinning circle. Logan frowned. He recognized the face that had formed in front of him immediately. He spoke the name before he could stop to think about it. "Magneto," He said.

Gateway did not acknowledge his words. The image of Magneto's face disappeared and it was replaced with another scene: The crash of flight 706 in full graphic detail. The last image shimmered into view and showed Logan just what lay in store if they failed: New York lay in ruins, black squares of earth rotting holes where the huge proud buildings once stood. Black helicopters zoomed into view and Logan could just make out a giant figure emerging from the Hudson, dwarfing Lady Liberty as it approached. Then, Gateway stopped twirling the Woomera and opened his eyes. Logan knew what was in store for the X-Men if they failed this mission. 

Logan woke with a start and shook his head. He rubbed his hands over his face and they came away covered in a film of sweat. He blinked rapidly and realized that it was still daytime, and he had fallen asleep in a chair in the common room. He looked around with quick, jerky motion, and stood up on shaky legs. He heard Xavier's wheelchair humming along the hallway towards him, and turned to see the Professor enter the room, concern forming a question on his face. "He came to you again, didn't he?" Xavier asked simply. "Gateway?" Logan could only manage a nod. Xavier sighed and wheeled in closer. "What did he show you?"

Logan shrugged. "A few things. He showed me what could happen if we fail. Or at least, that's what I think he was showing me. It wasn't a pretty sight, Charley."

"What else?"

"The crash of flight 706, I think. Magneto's face appeared briefly, but I don't know why."

Xavier's frown deepened at this, but he didn't give voice to the concerns that had obviously taken hold. Logan didn't need to be a psychic to decipher Charles Xavier's mood: It was clear that he was more willing to place his faith in what an elderly Aboriginal Australian held for their future, than anything currently at his disposal. "Gateway has been wrong before," Xavier said, meeting Logan's gaze from under furrowed brows.

"He is just the guide, Charley," Logan replied softly. "What you need to understand about Gateway, he's only a messenger. He can't pick the images he presents, he just shows them, and they are a record of what might come to pass. If we're good, we avoid the outcomes he's shown us."

Xavier nodded. "I've come across him on the Astral Plane before. I have tried to engage him in some kind of dialogue, but he resists my attempts."

Logan smiled crookedly. "That's because he hasn't got something to say to you," He responded. "Think yourself lucky."

Xavier wondered why indeed a dead Aboriginal prophet and teleporter would appear to Logan so regularly. They had crossed paths when Gateway was alive, Xavier knew that much. He was able to glean little else from Logan's mind. Snatches of images from those times would force themselves to the surface from a sea of images that washed through Logan's mind. "Gateway appears to trust you," Xavier said slowly. "He normally doesn't like to interfere in mortal affairs."

Logan scratched his jaw thoughtfully. "Happens I've been thinking about that," He replied slowly. "Maybe Gateway is showin' me these things because he doesn't want them to occur."

"You think so."

Logan stretched and yawned. "I do, but then it's only a theory. The only person who can tell me what it means is a dead mute Aborigine."

Alex entered the room dressed in one of the team's uniforms. Xavier smiled in his direction and Logan wolf whistled. Alex did a little turn as if he were on a catwalk and sauntered over to them. "Military hardware by James Cameron, costume design by Tom of Finland!" Alex said obscurely. He rotated his shoulders in the shiny black leather jacket he wore over the uniform. "They don't leave much to the imagination, do they?"

"Who is Tom of Finland?" Xavier asked with a bemused look on his face. 

Alex gave him a wry smile. "Look it up on the Internet."

Xavier made a mental note to do just that, and wheeled forward. "How are the Blackbird modifications coming along?" He asked.

"Scott is just finishing up now. How did you and Hank go with Cerebro?"

"We were not able to successfully upgrade the system," Xavier sighed. "I'm afraid we have to rely solely on instinct for this mission."

"I figured we might have to," Logan said. He stood up and slapped a hand on Alex's shoulder, making the younger man jump. "Might as well round up the others. Tell them all to suit up and meet in the Blackbird hangar in one hour."

Alex nodded and headed out of the room to comply. Logan began to walk after him but Xavier called him back. "Logan."

Logan turned and faced Xavier, a question knitting his eyebrows.

"I've been thinking about your advice regarding Bobby's involvement in the mission," Xavier said slowly. "And while I agree that his lack of experience on missions such as this could slow us down, it might also be wise to consider him on other grounds. His powers notwithstanding, he has proved himself to be a quick thinker in very difficult situations. I don't believe he could be a liability in this case, Logan. And I approve of his inclusion in the team roster."

Logan shook his head slowly. "With due respect, Charley, I think you've lost your marbles," He replied. "He's just not ready."

Xavier held up a hand to quiet Logan's opposition. "I will take full responsibility for this decision, Logan. Besides, he won't be alone. I will be going with you all."

Logan's mouth fell open. He looked around the room, as if trying to find someone to ally with him against this crazy plan. "We're heading into a war zone, Charley," He said softly. "I can't let you…"

"Then it will please you to know that the decision is not yours to make," Xavier said curtly. "I do not wish to sit on the sidelines and watch as I place you all in such danger. Besides, with our inability to upgrade Cerebro, it does not seem the wisest decision to go in blind. While my long range telepathic abilities are boosted by Cerebro, they will function as normal if I attempt to lock onto an individual at relatively close range."

"But Jean can…"

"Jean's powers have yet to manifest at full capacity. At best she might be able to get an impression of Cortez's whereabouts, but no more. If I am there, the chances are great that if he is hiding, I will find him, or those around him."

Logan fought the urge to say any more on the subject. He didn't like the idea of dragging Xavier's crippled body through a mission that it may well not survive. They needed speed and stealth. He grinded his teeth and nodded. "I can't stop you."

Xavier offered him a smile. "I'm sure you could." He wheeled off then, leaving Logan to simmer. The very thought of mounting a mission into an unknown land where not only the terrain but the inhabitants were hostile, while dealing with an inexperienced X-man, and the team crippled leader on top of it…Logan could do nothing but strenuously object to Xavier's assertions. If he was a good soldier he listened to the guy calling the shots. And followed his orders to the letter, because it was all he could do. It didn't mean he agreed with them necessarily.


	7. Chapter Seven

****

SEVEN

"So, is the US ready to make this essentially ideological conflict a full scale war?"

Greenblatt squared his shoulders and glowered at the bleeding heart liberal filmmaker who posed the question. It was artsy little shits like him that embodied everything Greenblatt despised and made him long for the days of mandatory service. "The United States government is no longer willing to negotiate with a regime that endorses and houses known terrorists," He responded with more calm than he felt. The cameras were good at keeping his legendary anger at bay. "We are not heading into a one sided conflict here. They have been the aggressors, they have instigated war."

The talk show host who sat between Greenblatt and the documentary maker nodded like he understood. He turned to the filmmaker. "Your response, Mike?"

"I think this administration would do anything to keep the truth of this war from the American people. The attack on flight 706 was a tragedy. The loss of life on American soil is always an outrage. But what the good General here doesn't understand, what he doesn't get, is that the attack had nothing to do with Genosha as a nation. The regime wants to get rid of the Mutant Liberation Front as much as anyone. The US going in with all guns blazing will not only set the scene for a retaliatory attack from the Genoshans, it will bring us no closer to bringing the people responsible to justice."

Greenblatt clenched his jaw. "We have very good intelligence that indicates the Genoshan regime has had contact with the MLF on and off for the last decade."

He took a breath before continuing. "They have continually lied and dodged our questioning."

"I wonder if the people of the United States shouldn't wage war on their own government if that was reasonable grounds for conflict."

"You see, this is what I don't get about people like you," Greenblatt shot back. "You favour gun control, you oppose war, but you still expect to be kept safe and secure and free. All of those things cost our fighting men and women-and all of us in some way- dearly. The Genoshans have threatened our way of life. Their people have been responsible for a horrific crime against humanity. You expect us to ignore that?"

"No, you should be responding, but to throw diplomacy out the window in favour of an assault on an already hostile nation…"

"They are hostile because they hate freedom."

This bought a smile to the filmmaker's lips. "I agree that the Genoshan regime has a shocking history of human rights violations, and I agree that the regime should be removed from power, but these things can come without the necessity for violence."

"You're a fool if you believe that."

The host cut in at this point. "We have to leave it there gentlemen. Thankyou very much for your time."

Greenblatt stalked into his office followed by Robert Sanders. "You did well," Sanders said as he dumped a pile of folders onto Greenblatt's desk. "You stuck to your guns. I think the public will appreciate that."

Greenblatt shot him an acidic look. "It's any wonder the message got across at all, with that limp wristed excuse for a human being trying to brow beat me with his opinions! As if I were the bad one!" He slumped into his chair and sighed heavily. "It makes me sick to my stomach that we are just sitting on our hands while these murderers are allowed to walk the earth."

"The President is not a fool," Sanders said easily, hands spread. "He will listen to the groundswell of support that will inevitably come for an attack on Genosha."

Greenblatt nodded stiffly. He knew what was in store for them if war was declared, having served in Vietnam as a teenager and Desert Storm as a man. He knew the politics behind conflict, and he saw its ugly side. But a man like Greenblatt could only ever do one thing: fight. He was designed to kill, trained to be a weapon. Leading a nation that was proud in the same way would be an honour he had every right to expect. 

Amelia Voight emerged in the cavern and squinted at the flickering light afforded by the torches set into the high walls around her. Despite the blistering heat outside, she was shivering from her journey through the cave system. She regarded her surroundings with an air of disdain; the minimalist art, depicting mutant kind's superiority over humanity, the fat, high candles on the floor forming a path to a makeshift shrine covered in tattered crimson cloth. A part of her wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. She walked towards the shrine, a slight smile on her face, her downcast face letting her red hair fall forward as she reached out to touch the helmet placed upon it. It looked like a severed head in the darkness, reminding her of some pathetic attempt at a Halloween display. 

"Its hard to take in sometimes."

Amelia turned to see the striking figure of Fabian Cortez standing in the mouth of the cave, backlit by flickering candles. "what is?" She asked softly.

Cortez moved into the room. He ran his hands over his newly shorn spiky red hair and smiled crookedly. When the attack on flight 706 thrust him into the international spotlight, he had cut his trademark shoulder length locks. "The enormity of his vision. The great gift the gave to our kind," He replied softly, his deep voice filling the room still. "It touches me so deeply I almost want to weep."

Amelia simply smiled at Cortez. She had joined his sect in the hope that it would fill the void that had been missing in her life. She hoped Cortez would help her re-connect with her beliefs. Instead she found that Cortez was a deranged young man who worshipped a deity that she had known personally more than twenty years ago. "You follow his path," She replied, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away. "You've made the world sit up and take notice. Its been days since flight 706. The whole world wants answers that only you can give."

Cortez breathed in deeply. "You still think the action I took was not justified?"

Amelia paused. She struggled to keep her true thoughts within. "I think…I think he could have done the same thing. I think that although my conscience finds the loss of any lives abhorrent, that a lesson needed to be taught."

Cortez smiled. "Indeed. We need to send the word out to our mutant brothers. The first shot has been fired, as it were. The war will begin and he will return to fight alongside his faithful."

No one spoke for a good hour after take off. The air was thick with fear, apprehension and anger. Each X-man went about their pre flight duties almost robotically, avoiding the need to talk as much as possible. It was always like this before a big mission, though Xavier as he was strapped into his chair by Storm. Logan's opposition to his inclusion weighed heavily on his mind. What if he was making a mistake? It wouldn't be the first time. Leading a group of young mutants into a war that had become a crusade for him could be his greatest folly.

"You seemed to know a lot about Genosha back there," Alex said to Logan. 

Logan nodded and met the younger man's eyes. "I was sent there probably before you were born. Different time back then. It wasn't the mutants that time but the Reds."

Alex nodded. "I've read about those missions. Extraordinary what we could get away with back then."

Logan gave him a sardonic smile. "If we survive this, I'll tell ya all about it, kid."

Cyclops looked back at them. "We should be near Genosha in about two and a half hours."

"I still wish we had more than some decades old maps to go on," Jean said.

"Genosha is about as closed off as you can get. It will be difficult finding smooth passage in at the best of times."

Scott looked at Jean, who was beside him in the co pilots chair and the atmosphere seemed to shimmer between them. 


End file.
